Dark Destiny 1x02  Dark World
by Dark Destiny 1329
Summary: Michael is an evil demon hellbent on destroying the Halliwells and their two new charges. That’s all there is to it – a demon that has to be vanquished. Right? [Full Summary Inside]
1. Scene One

**Dark Destiny **

**(Charmed Sons Virtual Series)  
**

**Season One, Episode Two**

** Dark World**

**Written by: Darien (aka alternate-universe-princess) and Shan (aka charmedgrl4ever)**

**Full summary: Michael is an evil demon hell-bent on destroying the Halliwells and their two new charges. That's all there is to it – a demon that has to be vanquished. Right? There's more to Michael than first meets the eye. Is he really evil or just believes so strongly in a lost cause that he's unwilling to listen to reason?**

**Disclaimer: We don't own Chris, Wyatt, or Bianca (or any other cannon characters we forgot to mention). We do, however, own Prue, Parker, Paris, Jenna, and Talia (and any other original characters we forgot to mention) and would appreciate it if you didn't steal our characters without (A) asking our permission and (B) giving us the credit for them. Thank you!**

* * *

_Opening Song: Oh, 'Ello - The Wes Hollywood Show _

**Scene One**

Thin rays of light seeped into a dark and slightly dusty dorm room at Magic School and landed upon – illuminating – the face of a still sleeping teenage boy. His honey brown hair fell over his eyes in shocks. He groaned, his whole body shaking back and forth as if caught in some terrible nightmare.

The door creaked open and a girl of about fifteen stepped inside. "Aiden?" she whispered. "Wake up." She swept her bangs back from her face and crept closer.

"Unngh..." the boy groaned. Again, he tossed and turned, the sheets getting tangled around him.

"Aiden!" This time, the girl laughed. The boy stirred, but did not wake. "Aiden!" This time, she yelled. "Wake up!"

When he still refused to wake she ran forward, catapulting herself onto the bed and bouncing up and down until finally, he jumped awake. "Wha—? Huh… Did I... Did I... I didn't start a..." he muttered, ignoring the girl on his bed and reaching to grab the fire extinguisher on the floor next to it.

He nearly pulled the tab off of the extinguisher before the girl gripped his shoulders and shook him, laughing. "You didn't light the room on fire, you just missed breakfast!"

"Oh," the boy, Aiden, said. He blushed. Then, as if something was just occurring to him he scrunched up his nose. "Peyton! Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"What? And miss breakfast myself? I think not." She grinned, hoping off the bed and re-adjusting her skirt.

Aiden yawned and got out of bed. "So what time is it?"

"Well, seeing as Mel left for first period class about five minutes ago..." Again, Peyton grinned. "Lucky for you, I don't have any classes 'till second period, so I could actually come and wake you. But now, I'd better go. See ya later." With another smile, she sauntered off, leaving Aiden to scramble to get dressed.

Five minutes later, Aiden ran into his first period class - Math. He nodded politely at the professor and made his way to his desk. The professor rolled her eyes and continued to write out equations on the board.

He settled into his desk and got his notebook out, preparing to write down whatever things had been written on the board when he felt something hit the back of his head. Turning around in his seat, he looked down to see a piece of folded up paper on the floor. As discreetly as he could, he reached around the back of his chair and picked it up. In a flowery, scrawling script it read simply: _You're late. Again._

He spun around to face the girl in the seat behind him and grinned, mouthing, "You could've come to wake me up."

She smirked and whispered, "What, and miss you getting in trouble? Never."

"Mr. Dawson, Ms. Halliwell, please pay attention. Don't make me tell you again," the professor scolded from the front of the classroom.

Aiden stuck his tongue out at Mel for a fraction of a second before turning around to face the front of the class and smiling politely at the professor.

* * *

At a different dorm room on a different campus, there was not only sunlight streaming through the window, but loud music blaring from the next room over as well. Parker Matthews-Mitchell rolled over in bed and groaned. With blurry eyes, she looked up at the alarm clock on the top of her dresser. It read 8:01 a.m. It was completely silent. "Damn..." Parker groaned. 

With great effort, she extricated herself from her covers and stumbled towards the source of the noise - the common room between her and her roommate's bedrooms.

"April!" she shouted, trying desperately to be heard over the scarily loud music. "Please! For the sake of my ear drums turn that racket off!"

April, Parker's early morning loving, overall wearing, paint covered roommate turned away from the painting she'd been working on to face Parker. "I'm sorry Parker, but you know I'm at my most creative early in the morning. Not that eight a.m is early, anyway. Besides, don't you have class in an hour?"

"Yes, that's exactly why I wasn't planning on getting up for another fifty minutes!" Parker grumbled. She groaned again and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

April shrugged and went back to working on her abstract painting.

Parker groaned a third time and stumbled out of the room. She managed to get dressed and grab her keys and some change before stumbling out of the room in search of coffee.

She made her way down the hall and over to the neighboring building, looking for her brother. She assumed that as usual, he'd still be in his dorm room.

She passed by the usual litany of girls, and guys, in towels, and made her way to her brother's dorm room. She raised her hand to knock on the door but it opened before she had a chance to. A perky, half dressed blonde stepped out of the room and smiled at Parker nervously. Parker just rolled her eyes and walked inside. She found her brother, Paris, sitting on top of a very messy bed, in the middle of putting his shirt on.

"Another one of your many conquests?" asked Parker.

"Is it my fault they're drawn to me like flies?" Paris laughed.

"Sometimes, you disgust me, you know that?" Parker responded, squinting her eyes.

"And somehow, I know that's just the lack of caffeine talking." Paris got up and walked over to his desk, picking up some spare change. "Come on, let's go get some coffee before class."

Parker squinted her eyes at him again. "It's very evil to use my weakness against me, you know that?"

Paris laughed. "Oh, come on." He dragged her out of the room and locked the door.

Once they were both sufficiently caffeinated, Paris asked, "So, speaking of conquests, how did that date of yours go last night?"

Parked groaned and ducked her head. "Let's just say I won't be seeing him again any time soon."

"Why? What happened?" asked Paris. As he spoke, a tall, lithe brunette passed by and he couldn't help but smile at her. Even though he was walking with someone - someone the girl most likely did not know was his sister – she smiled back and winked before sauntering past.

Parker shook her head in disgust, but answered anyway. "Well, it would kind of be difficult for me to go out with him again, seeing as he probably does not remember me." She buried her face as best she could in her now nearly empty coffee cup.

Now she had her brother's full attention. "What did you do?"

Parker buried her face even farther into her coffee cup if it was at all possible. "I... kind of had to use memory dust on him."

Paris' jaw dropped open. "You what? Why?"

"Because...I kinda sorta orbed out in front of him."

"WHAT? Parker! You know how dangerous that is! And memory dust isn't completely permanent! He could remember and we could get caught!"

"Sure, rub it in why don't you?" Parker threw her hands up in the air and stormed off, heading for the cafeteria.

Behind her, Paris sighed. "Okay," he jogged to catch up. "What happened?"

Now Parker was the one that sighed. "Well... we were... you know... fooling around and... well... I orbed out."

"Wait, by fooling around you mean..."

"I mean we were making out on his couch. That's all. We were making out and I orbed out. And he freaked. He just lost it. He just started to go crazy. So, I orbed some memory dust and threw it at him. And now he doesn't remember me." She dropped her paper coffee cup into a garbage can and wrapped her arms around herself, her hair falling into her eyes.

"Aww, I'm sorry Parker. That sucks." Paris then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "But I do feel obliged to say I told you so. See, this is why you never get involved. You never go past a first date. It's too risky."

Parker was about to respond when at that exact second, a short redhead came flying towards them. "And who is she?" she yelled. She glared red hot daggers at Paris and at that exact second, she was much scarier than any demon could ever be.

"Uh, she's my sister. Parker," said Paris nonchalantly. "Parker meet —" he stopped short. He'd intended to try introducing this girl to his sister to gain some extra points and to get the girl to leave, but then he'd realized that he couldn't remember her name. "Uh... Uh..." he stuttered, brain working and failing. He had no idea what her name was. He was pretty sure he'd seen on her campus, and most likely gone out with her, but he still had no idea what her name was.

"Gabrielle," the short redhead snapped. "My name is Gabrielle!" She shoved him and stormed past. "Jerk!"

"Oh, yeah, your method seems much safer," Parker joked, backing away from her brother and laughing. "Do you even remember that girl?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

Parker shook her head. "On second thought, never mind. Let's just go and get some breakfast before they run out of my favorite cereal at the Caf."

* * *

_TBC... _


	2. Scene Two

**Dark Destiny **

**(Charmed Sons Virtual Series)  
**

**Season One, Episode Two**

**Dark World**

* * *

**Scene Two  
**

"Would you believe the kid in front of me actually took a spoonful of that glop they call lunch?" Mel snickered derisively.

"Not everyone here thinks the school food tastes like plastic like you do, you know," retorted the boy to whom she'd been speaking. Thick, brown hair fell across his forehead; and light brown eyes glowed with mirth. Pointing to the seat across from him, he silently offered her a seat.

"Thanks," she grumbled, dumping herself onto the bench and dumped her tray of food – a banana, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a mini carton of one percent milk – onto the table. Eyeing her friend suspiciously, Mel narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Must you be so cheery all the time?"

Aiden smirked. "Don't you ever get tired of asking that?" he wondered innocently, taking a bite of his own sandwich, tuna, and chewing thoughtfully. "I mean you've known me for over two years now, right? You'd think you would be used to me by now."

"Maybe," she agreed slyly, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Oh, come on, Laura," he protested playfully.

"I told you not to call me that," she snapped irritably. Wild strands of hair fell across her face as she moved into a more comfortable position, and she tried to rearrange herself in a way that didn't scrunch up her pale blue, long-sleeved shirt. The mornings always tended to be slightly cool, as if the school's air conditioning had gone haywire the night before.

"Why not?" he challenged, "It's your name."

"Middle name," she corrected promptly, sighing at the age-old argument. "There's a huge difference."

Ignoring her, he lightly countered, "I don't see why you don't like the name anyway. Laura Warren was a very powerful witch in her day."

"She could see the future and read people's thoughts, idiot," she retorted, rolling her eyes at Aiden's pathetic attempt to pacify her ever-growing temper. "How exactly did those powers make her anywhere near powerful?" Biting the inside of her lip, she purposely ignored the fact that those were her powers, too. She was just as weak as her namesake.

Aiden's eyebrows arched in disbelief; did Mel really believe what she was saying? "You of all people should know powers aren't the only thing a witch has," he remarked. "She was a phenomenal spell caster – just like you."

Only one who knew Mel like the back of his own hand would notice the faint blush that tinted her cheeks. Wyatt would have noticed it; Aiden noticed it immediately and was quickly forced to conceal a grin. "Right," Mel mumbled.

Changing the subject, Aiden casually asked, "Do you even like milk?"

"No," she intoned, eyeing the carton with distaste, "but it's either this or egg water. No thank you. I'll take the milk – strong bones." Rolling her eyes, she opened the carton and lifted it to eye level. "Whoop-dee-doo," she sighed, tipping it so that a slow stream began to trickle slowly but steadily from the nozzle.

"Mel!" Aiden cried, pulling her hand back and setting the milk back on her tray, "What are you doing?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mel stared at Aiden appraisingly. "What?" she asked harshly. She never took kindly to people telling her what to do, and Aiden knew that about her. Why was he staring at her so incredulously like that?

"Don't you know how many people aren't lucky enough to have any milk – or any drinks at all for that matter? Don't just go around wasting what you have! We're lucky to have everything that we have."

Snorting, Mel snatched the carton back from her best friend. "Oh yeah?" she snickered. "How come I don't feel lucky?" She downed the rest of the milk in one gulp.

* * *

_Dark World: Six Years Ago..._

Balancing a carton of fresh milk in either hand, twelve year old Michael shook his light brown hair out of his eyes, squinting into the dimly-lit alley. Eyes scanning for demons who might have followed him from the Dark Alley, he quickly wove past dilapidated, discarded furniture and old boxes, soggy and deteriorating. Behind one of the larger boxes was a small flap, purposely hidden so that no one would find it unless he or she knew precisely where to look.

Michael knew where to look.

Hefting both cartons into one hand, he reached over with his right arm and pushed back a flap to reveal and cramped space where he, his mother, and his sisters resided. It wasn't much, he knew; but it was home and had been for quite some time now. This place had protected them from demonic attacks more than once thanks to Chris's protection spells and circles. Michael's family was indebted to Chris for all he had done for them after Wyatt came to power. The Fitzwilliams and the Halliwells had been family friends for as long as Michael could remember, and when Wyatt had turned it had devastated both families.

He had awoken that morning to the smell of something burning and shot up in an instant, his eyes wide as they scanned the room for the source of the stench. His first thought was that someone had found them – somehow – and was flushing them out like one did with bees in a beehive.

Jeanne, Michael's mother, had glanced up from the object in her hand and looked across the room at her oldest child. A weary smile lit her face, but her eyes remained as dark as ever. Casually, she held up a burnt piece of toast for him to see; it was black as coal, and it smelled just as bad.

Michael wrinkled his nose and questioned, "What's that for?"

"When it's burnt," she calmly explained, "you can hardly taste that it's moldy." She busily returned to what she was doing, not wanting to see the expression of despair that flitted across her son's face. She knew what he was thinking and often wondered the same thing herself: Why were they forced to live this way, like rats in a hole?

That was why, this afternoon, Michael proudly bound into the room he called home with two fresh cartons of milk cradled carefully. Fresh. These were fresh jugs of milk. The word 'fresh' barely held any meaning to them anymore. It was from a fantasy some child made up long ago, and it was forgotten when people grew up – just like everything else in children's imagination. Fresh did not exist.

However, in the Dark Alley, one could find food… if one knew where to look. It was the modern-day Black Market, and Michael knew how to sweet-talk his way past other costumers and into the best foods before anyone else. It was how he came across these two drinks, and he had seized them the moment the opportunity presented itself. Michael wasn't one to let an opportunity like that just vanish.

"Hey, guys, check out what I found!" he called in excitement, stumbling into the room in his eagerness to show his mother. "I got food!" he exclaimed loudly when no one answered his call. His eyes darted around the room and immediately landed upon a towering figure in the corner. He sagged, let out an audible sigh of relief, and carefully released his burden on the floor.

"Chris," he smiled. "What are you doing here?"

Not bothering to answer the young pre-teen, Chris merely stared at Michael, let a glinting object drop from his hands, and orbed out. Michael saw the shadow of a wink and a smirk on his face before it disappeared in a pillar of bright orbs. He had to shield his eyes, wondering just what that had been about.

_The least he could have done was say goodbye_, he grumbled to himself as he walked past the couch on which his mother always slept. Where was she anyway? Where were his two sisters, Stephanie and Danielle? Where could they possibly — then he saw it. A foot sticking out from underneath a blanket in the corner behind where Chris had been standing – the only blanket they owned. He stepped forward and gingerly lifted the blanket up.

If he had been holding the milk, it would have dropped from his hands now and spilled all over the floor beneath his feet. His legs gave out beneath him, his eyes searching in horror for some glimmer of hope – some piece of nonexistent hope.

"M-Mom?" he croaked, a trembling hand reaching towards the fallen body on the floor. Her cheek was cold as ice, and dried blood bathed the skin on her face, dyeing it a deep shade of crimson. Shivering, he withdrew his hand. "Mom!" he screamed. "Mom, come on; answer me!"

His eyes darted to the floor where Chris had been standing, where Chris had dropped something… A knife, Michael realized and slowly crawled over to the bloodstained weapon, tenderly picking it up and turning it over in her hands. Why would Chris…?

"Stephanie!" he yelled, not allowing his mind to comprehend what he had just seen. It wasn't possible. "Danielle! Where are you guys?"

He needn't have yelled because his sisters were right there, hidden behind the couch so that Michael hadn't noticed them before. Their bodies, too, were mangled, bloody messes. From Stephanie's wrist jutted out a shock-white bone, and Michael would have vomited had his stomach not been empty for the past few days. For once he thanked whoever was watching that he hadn't had enough money to also buy some food from the Dark Alley. If he had eaten a single bite of food before now, it would have immediately come back up.

As it was, he collapsed over his sister's body, sobbing and retching dryly until he could hardly breathe. When he touched her hand, he realized it was still warm; and the blood still flowed from an open wound on her stomach. She had only been killed recently. With sudden determination, he turned to stare at his other sister, Danielle. Perhaps whoever did this (he refused to believe it was Chris, despite what his eyes and brain told him) didn't have time to kill her.

"Please," he whispered, a desperate prayer to the Powers-That-Be (who had seemingly abandoned Earth long before now). Weakly, he dragged himself over to Danielle's emaciated body. "Danielle?" he whispered.

Lips moved, but no sound came out; and Michael's breath caught in his throat. He was too afraid to breathe, afraid that it might kill the only family member that was still alive. "D-Danielle," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "Please don't go."

The nine-year-old girl moved her lips again, trying to tell her older brother something; but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't even read her lips. He gave one last squeeze as he made out her last words: I'm sorry.

"It's not your fault," he whispered to her, tears streaming down his cheeks as he felt her go limp beside him. "It's not your fault," he repeated… because how could it be her fault when he knew it was really his own? If he had been here to protect them, if he hadn't run off to the Dark Alley… If he had just been here…

"Stand up, boy," a callous voice commanded.

Without having to turn around, Michael knew the voice that echoed endlessly in the tight room. It haunted his nightmares and his memories. How could he ever forget the voice of Wyatt Halliwell?

Numb, Michael obeyed.

"I take it you've seen your mother, too," Wyatt said, and Michael could find no trace of a smirk in his voice. "And I'm guessing you saw Chris, too."

"He didn't do it," Michael remarked, certain. Chris would never do anything to hurt his family; there was another explanation, something he was missing – something that was staring him right in the face.

Wyatt was staring him right in the face, he noticed.

"Oh no?"

_There's the smirk I was looking for, _Michael thought dazedly. Without even realizing it, his fists curled into tight balls, his eyes narrowing at the bastard standing before him who would dare talk about his family with such disrespect.

His voice was flat and confident when he replied, "No."

"How else would I have known where this place is? Chris took down the protection against me," Wyatt pointed out, though Chris had done no such thing. Chris was strong, but when Wyatt wanted to he could take the time to break through Chris's defenses, especially when such a huge concentration of power was being hidden in one place. And Michael possessed a hell of a lot of power.

"He wouldn't," Michael replied with conviction.

"He already _did_," Wyatt countered. "Look around you, Michael"—Michael winced—"open your eyes. Don't you see the destruction Chris left in his wake?" Wyatt spread his arms to motion to the blood pooling on the floor, the three maimed corpses crumpled and left to rot. "Chris betrayed you and your family; he's not who he says he is, and this proves it. He was afraid you would get to powerful —"

"Me?" Michael interrupted with a courage he certainly didn't feel. He laughed harshly and continued, "I think you've got the wrong witch. I have minimal powers, Wyatt." The name felt raw on his tongue, like acid. He bit his cheek to keep from crying out in frustration and charging at the monster in his home.

"You are powerful," Wyatt responded calmly, his voice so gentle that Michael almost remembered who this man used to be. He was almost convinced until he glanced down at the mangled bodies that had been his mother and sisters. "You have more power than you could begin to imagine… and I can help you channel it."

"I don't want your help," Michael spat, turning away in disgust.

"Oh no?" Wyatt remarked airily. "How will you get revenge for"—he motioned to the blood again—"this."

"I—don't—want—revenge," Michael forced through clenched teeth. Then, lividly, he burst out, "I want _justice_! I _deserve_ it! They… they didn't deserve to die…" His voice cracked as he brokenly continued, "They didn't do any-anything wrong." A dry sob wrenched past his closing throat, and he shook his head, closing his eyes against the stinging tears.

"Of course they didn't," Wyatt replied in as gentle a tone as he could muster. Taking a risk, he stepped forward and placed a comforting arm on Michael's shoulder. The boy winced and stumbled backwards in his hurry to retreat, but Wyatt kept a firm grip on him. "Look at this, Michael, at them. Do you see your mother's body lying there? Do you see your sisters? They deserved so much more – the chance to grow up safe, the chance to lead normal lives. Chris stole that from them. Wouldn't they want justice for their deaths?"

In a daze Michael merely nodded, defeated. Wyatt released the boy's shoulder and extended his hand in front of Michael's face. After a fleeting hesitation, the young witch seized Wyatt's hand, anger flashing in his eyes. Chris always said Wyatt was evil, Mom always said Wyatt was evil… but Mom wasn't here anymore. According to Wyatt that was all Chris's doing. Normally Michael wouldn't believe the alleged tyrant, but the way Wyatt spoke… as if he actually cared… it was more than Chris ever accomplished when he came by for a visit. Even calling it a 'visit' was a bit of a stretch. He would orb by every once in a while to inform Jeanne of the latest threat, tell her to watch out, and then orb off again.

_Before he orbed, he winked at me, _Michael reminded himself, dread bubbling in his abdomen as his stomach muscles clenched painfully.

Not giving him the chance to change his mind, Wyatt immediately orbed away from the three bodies, leaving them to rot for eternity. The moment he and Michael vanished, he activated a spell under his breath, causing the entire hideout to go up in flames. He didn't need Chris coming after him, finding something in the Fitzwilliam lair to scry for Michael.

When the two reappeared, Michael immediately stumbled forward, not used to orbing from place to place. While he steadied himself, Wyatt crossed the room and closed the door loudly. Startled, Michael jumped, eyes darting to Wyatt nervously. What had he just gotten himself into?

"You're scared," Wyatt stated without question. "I'll let you get used to your new home before we begin your training." If he was expecting a 'thank you,' Wyatt was sorely disappointed.

"New home?" Michael echoed, confusion written out on his face. "Train —"

"That's right, new home," Wyatt interrupted. "And yes, training." He looked Michael square in the eye and said darkly, "You want to avenge your family's death, don't you?"

"Of course," Michael hurriedly responded, intimidated and therefore quickly backing down. He wanted – needed – Wyatt's help if he wanted his mother and two sisters to truly be able to rest in peace.

"Hey, Wyatt —" came a voice from behind the door. It creaked open and a head peaked through, pale brown hair falling down the girl's shoulders in great waves. She wore a skin-tight, sleeveless shirt and mini, black shorts. Across the butt was written the words 'Bite Me' in fiery red. Her eyes were fierce with a, "keep the hell away from me" expression.

_Why does she look so familiar?_ Michael wondered as he watched her storm into the room as if she owned it.

"Mel," Wyatt murmured, obviously pleased. "This is Michael"—he waved a lazy hand in Michael's direction—"a witch." Michael scrunched his nose; he hated being labeled for his powers. It was his personality, as his mother always said, that was important. He wasn't a witch who just happened to be a boy; he was a boy who just happened to be a witch.

Mel… Mel… Mel… Where had he heard that name before?

"Mel is my cousin," Wyatt introduced to Michael. Michael's eyebrows rose as he wondered why Chris never mentioned one of his cousins actually working with Wyatt. More proof that Chris was indeed a liar.

* * *

"_Michael, get down!" Jeanne shrieked, and her son ducked just as a fireball zoomed above his head. Terror squeezed the heart that pounded loudly against his ribcage as if trying to escape. His mother's power was weak at best; there was no way she'd stand a chance against an upper level demon._

"_Mom, let me help!" Michael called. Where was she?_

"_No! Stay down, Michael. Find your sisters and get out of here." Her voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time; he could barely concentrate. Oh god, she was going to die and so was he. What would happen to Stephanie and Danielle? They couldn't take care of themselves, but they certainly couldn't go to foster care either – not with their Wiccan powers._

"_Michael, listen to me." Suddenly, his mother was standing in front of him, shaking the nine-year-old vigorously to shake him from his reverie. He wondered where she had come from; materializing wasn't her power. "Michael, look at me, baby." His gaze slid past her, panicked. "Michael, you need to get out; you need to find Stephie and Dani and hide. I'll hold the demons off long enough for you to run and then —"_

"_No way!" the boy protested. "I can't take care of them by myself." His eyes filled with tears as the words poured from his lips. He couldn't believe what he was saying, how he was talking – as if his mother was already dead._

"_I know you can do it, baby," Jeanne whispered to her son, kissing his cheek tenderly, her lips lingering on his skin for a moment as if hoping it might keep death at bay for a little while longer. "Now listen to me; I'll distract them so that you can get to the door. When you're out of here, don't wait for me. I want you to run like hell and find your sisters. Understand?"_

_Even as he shook his head frantically, he knew he would do as she asked._

"_On the count of three." She squeezed her son's hand and spoke out of the corner of her mouth as she turned around to face the seven demons closing in on the pair. "One…" She tightened her grip. "Two…" Tears spilled out onto his cheeks and thoughts whirred madly in his head. "Three!"_

_Shoving him away from her, she yelled, "Go!" and jumped up into the air. Tapping into her power of levitation, she hovered over the demons' heads kicking one in the face so that he went sprawling. The others snarled angrily and swiped at her ferociously._

_One grabbed her leg and dragged her down from the ceiling. She screamed in terror as she was pulled to the floor and kicked painfully in the stomach. Tears of agony collected in her eyes, and she bit them back fearfully._

_Suddenly a swaddle of orbs materialized before her eyes; and the second-to-oldest Halliwell child appeared. Before the demons could figure out who he was and what was going on, he sent them all flying backwards with a simple wave of his hand. Quickly, he stooped beside her and extended his hand._

"_We have to hurry," he said in a rushed tone._

"_Michael," Jeanne mumbled in horror. "I can't leave him; he doesn't know where to go. And my girls —"_

"—_Are fine," he finished for her. "Talia picked them up from school earlier today; we anticipated his attack. Jenna is with Michael now. We have to get you out of here before he comes." Reaching out to grab her hand, Chris helped her climb to her feet. Then, just as the demons began to climb back up, he orbed to the large building hidden from Wyatt's radar._

"_I don't understand," Jeanne sighed, hugging a seven-year-old Danielle to her chest. Her youngest, Stephanie, clung to her frantically, one thumb popped into her mouth for comfort. "You're trying to tell me that Wyatt sent those demons after us? How could he? He's always been such a sweet boy."_

"_Not anymore," replied Chris darkly. "He's after followers, and the people that aren't willing to serve him – well, they won't live for much longer. We barely got to you on time."_

"_On time for what?" Jeanne snorted. "Chris, I've known you and your siblings for a long time. Wyatt's powerful. If he wants something done, he'll get it. What do you propose to do – kill him?" He flinched as if she'd slapped him, and she sighed heavily, shaking her head. "He's just as stubborn as your mother is… was. We can't convince him that what he's doing is wrong if he doesn't want to see it."_

"_No but we can protect the innocents – just like always. Our jobs haven't changed; the only thing that has changed is what we're now protecting them from. That doesn't change the fact that people are in danger. We're in danger – so what? What else is new?" Firmly, the fourteen-year-old crossed his arms and stared at the witch before him._

"_Mommy, I'm tired," whined the four-year-old glued to her leg. "I wanna go to sleep."_

"_Not yet, baby. We're waiting for —"_

"_Mom!" Michael tore from Jenna's grip and scrambled into the room. "You're all right!"_

"_Of course I am, baby," she murmured with a relieved smile. Her family was back together again. "Chris saved me from the demons."_

_Shyly, Michael turned gratefully to Chris. "Thanks for saving my mom," he mumbled, staring at the floor._

_A fleeting, half-smile flitted across the witchlighter's face; and he nodded his head in response. Then, back to business, he said, "We have a place you can stay that will shield you from Wyatt's radar." I hope, he thought mentally. After all, as well as he knew his brother, he didn't think even Wyatt himself knew the true extent of his powers. "You, Michael, and the girls should be safe there."_

"_Thank you, Chris," Jeanne replied. "You don't know how amazing you have been to us. You saved my life and the lives of my children. I have no way of thanking you for such a great act."_

_Blushing, Chris dropped his gaze and modestly mumbled, "Mom would have wanted us to help you."_

_Jeanne smiled. "She would have been proud."_

* * *

_TBC... _


	3. Scene Three

**Dark Destiny **

**(Charmed Sons Virtual Series)  
**

**Season One, Episode Two**

**Dark World**

* * *

**Scene Three**

"This is so stupid," Michael groaned, pacing back and forth in the room that was supposed to be his from now on. After complaining day in and day out about the cramped living space he, his mother, and his sisters had shared, he now found it impossible to get comfortable in this huge bedroom. It was too empty. It lacked what made a room into a _bedroom_. Sure, it had a bed and a dresser; but it was devoid of love and comfort. It lacked family and memories.

He closed his eyes against the wall of pain.

He'd never been given the chance to mourn for his family. Wyatt began training him the day after he moved in and had given him no respite from the rigorous schedule. Michael knew he was being worked to death, knew it wasn't healthy for him; but he didn't really give a damn right now. The only thought on his mind – the thought that plagued him day and night and kept him going when he felt he might collapse – was the sweet taste of revenge. Chris Halliwell would pay for the lives he had taken.

"_Michael!_" Mel snapped irritably from behind the closed bedroom door. She knocked once loudly and burst into the room, not bothering to wait for his answer. He was just beginning to get used to Mel's rebellious personality. She only seemed to care about doing things that would piss off her parents, who weren't even here to see her do it anyway.

_Let her lose her mother,_ he thought bitterly. _Then we'll see how much she wants to go against her._

He didn't know how right he would be.

"What?" he muttered, turning his back to her while he walked over to his dresser. He rummaged through the top drawer until he found a dark gray, long-sleeved shirt. Pulling it over his bare chest, he then found a pair of black pants to wear over his boxers. His mother, Jeanne had always hated black, but Michael was still in mourning and would probably be for some time.

When he turned around again, Mel was staring at him, eyebrows raised. "You're just now getting dressed?" she snorted. "Wyatt and I have been up for two and a half hours already."

Michael scowled. He hated when Mel stressed how close she and Wyatt were. She pushed Michael out of the picture as far as she could, not wanting the threat he posed to her and her cousin's relationship. As long as Michael stayed away from Wyatt, Mel could be friendly – amiable at times. However, at times like this – fifteen minutes before Wyatt started the daily hour-long training with him – she sniped and growled at him as if he were the biggest evil, worse than Chris.

"Yeah, well, some of us like to sleep," Michael grumbled crossly. "Look, what are you doing here?"

"I came to tell you that there's some breakfast outside," she said, sounding for all the world as if she had been forced into bringing the message.

"What happened to Xanther —" Michael began in confusion, referring to the demon who normally informed him when breakfast had been made for him.

"He was vanquished," she interrupted concisely. Then, with a smirk, she added, "I vanquished him. He was pissing me off."

"You know, Wyatt wouldn't want you killing off all his demons," Michael thought he should mention as he walked past the girl towards the door. She spun around to glare at him, and he smirked, his eyes purposely gliding past her. It felt good to get her riled up. He most definitely couldn't do it to Wyatt. Chris was the real person he wanted to hurt, but that Halliwell wasn't here. He would have to make do with this one.

"Don't tell me what Wyatt wants," she snapped. "I think I know him _slightly_ better than you do, you jerk."

"Oh really?" retorted the older witch. "Then why am _I_ getting the private lessons?" He left her to contemplate that and went to grab a quick bite to eat before Wyatt called for him.

* * *

_Michael scampered into his parents' bedroom, ducking into his mother's arms. He wrinkled his nose as he informed Jeanne, "Daddy smells again."_

_Jeanne sighed heavily, shaking her head. "Go to bed, Michael," she murmured, not wanting her son to witness her husband's actions again. "It's way past your bedtime."_

"_Not tired," countered the four-year-old almost instantly. "I want Daddy to say g'night to me."_

"_I'll let him know," she lied, knowing Michael would be asleep before his dad could come in anyway. There was no way she was sending that man into her child's room at a time like _this_. Not again. She had her children's health to think about, after all._

_Just as the boy scurried out of the room, down the hall, and into his bed, a towering brunette stomped into the room, swaying on his feet. Jeanne wrinkled her nose. Michael was right; her husband _did_ smell._

"_Oh, Malcolm," she sighed. "Not again."_

"_What's that supposed to mean?" he chuckled throatily. He staggered towards the bed and pulled Jeanne roughly to her feet, kissing down the back of her neck. She leaned into him until a wall of alcohol filled her nostrils. Almost gagging, she pulled away. "What was _that_ about?" he demanded angrily._

"_You're drunk," she stated flatly. "Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning." She headed toward the door to tuck Michael in and to make sure Dani was still sleeping after her father's boisterous entrance._

"_Drunk?" he barked. "I don't think so – I can hold more of the stuff than anyone I know."_

"_Yeah," Jeanne retorted without thinking, "and it looks like you actually tried to do just that."_

"_And what's that supposed to mean?" he hissed lividly, eyes darkening with lust as his wife flipped her hair over her shoulder as if to disregard her husband. She always looked so sexy when she was angry. "Don't you dare walk away from me!" he growled._

"_And why not?" she snorted. "You don't own me."_

"_Where are you going?" he demanded roughly, storming toward her._

"_To kiss my children good night," she responded coldly. "I think you should go to sleep now, Malcolm. You'll have a killer headache in the morning from the looks of things."_

"You_ go to sleep," he replied indifferently, shoving her aside. "I'm going to go check on the kids."_

_Jeanne's eyes widened, and she shook her head, grabbing his arm forcefully. "No, don't," she said, not wanting a repeat of last week. Michael might have forgotten, but Jeanne didn't think she'd _ever_ forget. "You're not yourself right now," she pleaded._

"_That's bullshit," he snapped, shrugging out of her grip. "Can't a man kiss his kids goodnight?"_

"_Yeah, except that's not all you'll do."_

"_Shut up," Malcolm growled, his words slurring together as he glared at the woman before him. "Shut the fuck up, you bitch. You don't own them. They're not _your_ kids; they're mine, too." He stormed off to Michael's room and entered raucously without stopping to think that his son might be sleeping._

"_Hi, Daddy!" cried an excited four-year-old boy, seeing his dad burst into the room. He hopped out of bed and wrapped two stubby arms around his father's leg._

_Malcolm shook the boy off. "Hi, sport," he said, walking over to the bed. "Can I have a hug and kiss g'night?"_

_Nodding vigorously, the boy wriggled back onto his bed and planted a kiss on his daddy's nose. Then, he linked his hands behind Malcolm's neck, burying his head in the man's broad shoulder. Suddenly, he pulled away, nose scrunched. "You smell like a fire, Daddy," he giggled._

_The hit came before Michael could even blink. "Who told you that you could talk to me like that?" he snarled, backhanding the boy so hard that he fell backwards on the bed. A tiny pair of eyes filled with tears, but Michael quickly brushed them back. He didn't want Daddy to see him cry; Daddy never liked it when he—_

"_What are you – a baby?" the man sneered. "You crying like Dani?"_

_"N-no," Michael whispered hoarsely. "I'm not – I swear!"_

"_Don't lie, boy!" Malcolm growled, grabbing a handful of his hair and wrenching him off the bed to the floor. The 'boy' curled up into a small ball, hoping to block his face and chest from the onslaught of kicks and punches he knew would ensue. It didn't take long for the pale-skinned boy to turn a dark shade of red with bruises developing on every open piece of skin._

"_Stop it!" he heard his mother yell behind Daddy. "Stop it! What the hell is the matter with you?" Through squinted eyes he saw Mommy pull his daddy off of him. A muffled groan escaped his lips, and he prayed Daddy wouldn't hear it. If he did… A tremor of dread raced up the boy's spine at the thought._

_Mommy's protective arms encircled him, lifting him onto the bed and tucking him in. "I'm so sorry, baby," she sobbed._

"_Will Daddy tuck me in, too?" Michael asked fearfully. "I don't want Daddy to tuck me in tonight. Will you stay with me?"_

"_Of course, baby," Jeanne whispered into his ear as she kissed him goodnight. "I'll stay with you until morning."_

_Satisfied and immensely relieved, the four-year-old fell asleep. When he awoke in the morning, he found his arms and legs a lovely hue of purplish blue; and he ached all over. He glanced over at the rocking chair beside his bed and wasn't too surprised to find it empty. Mommy had probably already woken up and started breakfast for him, Daddy, and Dani._

_Meanwhile, Jeanne could be found locked in the only bathroom in the house, a small stick in her hands, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror. She didn't _look _any different._

"_I'm pregnant," she murmured, her voice barely over a whisper. Oh god, what would she do now? Malcolm already abused their eldest child; what would happen when Dani grew old enough to make silly mistakes that every child made? Would she be beaten as well? And then, when her father was sober, would he come back to her begging for forgiveness – which, of course, she would offer. How could she not forgive her own father?_

_And now a third child would be brought into this madness? A third child to be beaten and bruised – physically and emotionally. Jeanne couldn't do that to her children; she wouldn't put them into that sort of danger. She loved her husband dearly, but she absolutely couldn't put up with this anymore. She'd given him more than enough chances to sober himself up, but he continued to go out nearly every night and come back drunk. Enough was enough._

_Creeping into her son's room, she saw him slipping out of bed as quietly as he could. When he noticed her, he smiled brightly. "Hey, baby," she whispered._

"_Daddy's still sleeping?" he asked, wondering why she was talking so quietly. Silently, the boy's mother nodded and pulled him close to her._

"_Listen to me very carefully, baby. We don't want Daddy to wake up because he had a long night, understand? You are _not_ to make _any_ noise. Do you hear me?" Without uttering a sound, the boy pressed his hands over his lips and nodded. A weak smile flitted over Jeanne's features. "Very good. In fact, I think we'll go out for the day so that Daddy won't be bothered. Does that sound like fun?" Again a nod._

_It took an hour and twenty minutes for Jeanne to dance around the small house, packing away her children's clothes, old toys, and her own belongings. Two suitcases and a backpack later, Michael stood by the door, waiting for Mommy to wrestle a jacket over Danielle's head. Finally, she tied the baby into the pouch hanging over her chest, grabbed the two small suitcases in either hand, and nodded to Michael. They were ready._

_Heaving the backpack onto his shoulders, Michael opened the door for Mommy and skipped down to the sidewalk. "I'm ready!" he called to her, eager to finally be able to use his voice after having been silent all morning. The three of them walked the mile down to the train station. With one last, forlorn look back the way they had come, Jeanne bought two tickets and ushered Michael onto the train. He never realized that they wouldn't be going back._

* * *

_TBC..._


	4. Scene Four

**Dark Destiny **

**(Charmed Sons Virtual Series)  
**

**Season One, Episode Two**

**Dark World**

* * *

**Scene Four**

"No, no, no," Wyatt groaned irritably. "Haven't you _ever_ used your powers before?"

"Well… sure," Michael admitted hesitantly, afraid Wyatt might laugh. "But it was always by accident. I never _tried _to use them. Why would I want to? All it does is cause me problems."

"Not anymore," Wyatt countered firmly. "I'm going to teach you how to master them if it's the last thing you do. Now get up – try again."

With a groan, Michael climbed to his feet, rubbing his aching spine. To help him activate his powers, Wyatt had been shoving him down, throwing energy balls at him – whatever he could to get Michael scared enough to want to go backward or forward in time. Personally, Michael didn't think any of this would work in the slightest. If his mother's and sisters' deaths couldn't make him want to go back in time, how could his own sense of self preservation? All he cared about was them, and he had failed at protecting them anyway.

He remembered with immense clarity his younger sister's struggle for survival, something every person had nowadays. He saw her eyes wide, blank, her lips moving soundlessly.

_I'm sorry…_

And Chris had taken that from him. Chris had taken Danielle's life before she could barely begin to use it. He was evil – the bastard murdered an innocent girl in cold blood, all the while pretending he was _allies_ with them.

_I want him dead,_ Michael thought viciously. _I hope he burns in hell for all of eternity._

"Well done," came a sinister voice behind him. He opened his eyes to find himself standing at the other end of the room. How could that have happened – he didn't remember ordering his legs to move...

"What happened?" he asked in surprise, glancing around him as if expecting to see the earth shift under his feet.

"You moved ahead in time – albeit by a few seconds only. But we can change that; now that you know what activated your powers, you can go as far ahead as you wish. Well done," he repeated, grinning. "What scared you?"

Michael shook his head, still too shocked to think properly. "Not scared," he murmured at long last, his throat dry. "Pissed." His eyes hardened as Chris's face popped into his mind once more. Clenching his fists, he grabbed hold of the raw emotion bubbling to the surface. A flash of tight pain erupted in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his mother's body lying motionless on the floor. Stephanie covered in blood. Danielle – his baby sister, whom he had sworn to protect until the end of time should something happen to Mom – eyes glazed and lifeless. All of them dead when they shouldn't have had to be killed. There was no reason whatsoever.

Without him realizing, his very body melted into the background, vanishing from view. Wyatt waited briefly for him to return and then smirked when there was no sign of the boy. He was a quick study.

* * *

A breeze blew softly across Michael's face, whispering music into his ear. Wait… how could the wind blow when he was indoors? His eyes flew open to reveal a dank alley, the alley right in front of the room he shared – _used to_ share – with three females. 

Heart pounding at the thought of seeing his home once more, he scrambled over to the cardboard boxes that hid the entrance and quickly slipped inside.

"Who's that?" called a wary voice, and Michael froze.

As he whimpered, "M-Mom?" his voice caught in his throat. It couldn't be; she was dead, wasn't she? Or had that all been just a dream – a nightmare? It had felt so real, but then again so did this. The stench of old sweat drifted lazily to his nose, the occasional, echoing scream permeated the walls. The air tasted dry and stale. This place was home.

His previous rage at Chris melted away and he ran to his mother, engulfing her into a giant hug, refusing to release her. He heard a light snicker behind him, recognizing Stephanie's mocking tone as she made some crack about Jeanne being the only woman he would ever hug. He didn't bother to respond, just closing his eyes to hold onto the scene forever.

"Very good," Wyatt said, and when he opened his eyes he was back in the training room, nothing but boulders and four walls. "Where were you this time?"

It took Michael a moment to find his voice and another few seconds to speak without it cracking. It had been so _real_. Why was he tormenting himself like this? "My mother – she was alive. I saw her."

"Ah, so you went to the past this time. Good. You know how to go both ways, then. I think we can stop for the day. Go take a shower; you look like hell warmed over." And just like that Wyatt was gone, orbing off to spend time with Mel or god-knew-what. What did overlords do when they had spare time?

Michael sank down against one of the smooth, stone walls, drew his knees up to his chest, and sobbed. "I'm sorry," he murmured, hoping his family could still hear him wherever they were. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

"_Mike," Danielle called, still unable to pronounce her brother's whole name._

"_What's up, Dani?" Michael sighed. The seven-year-old knelt in front of the girl's face and asked, "What do you want?"_

"I want Mommy," she replied simply.

"_Mommy's at work," Michael explained for the umpteenth time that day. "She won't be home 'till late, remember? I'm making dinner tonight."_

"No. I want Mommy."

"_Yes," he countered forcefully. "Don't you think I want her here, too? But how else do you think we can get money 'n stuff if she doesn't go to work every day? It's not like we've got Daddy 'round to help us."_

And there it was – the reason they were like this.

_Michael didn't remember much about his daddy. He remembered flashes – like Malcolm reading him a bedtime story before he went to sleep, kisses on the forehead, walking in on his parents kissing in the kitchen, a slap across the face… Just stuff like that. He asked his mom about that last memory one time, but she convinced him it was just a dream._

_He remembered asking her, "How come Daddy don't live with us no more?" and her answer had always been the same: Daddy was sick and couldn't take care of us. Michael had long ago gotten used to have no father around, but sometimes it was hard for him to accept it. Like the Monday after Father's Day when all the other kids at school rambled endlessly about what they gave their dads or where they went for the weekend. Like now when Mom was at work and Michael was forced to cook and watch the two toddlers until she came home. He was seven for crying out loud; he wasn't ready to take care of kids!_

"_D'you want to play a game?" he asked Dani with a muffled groan. He wanted to be playing baseball with all the other boys his age. That always looked kind of fun to play; why couldn't he own a mitt or a bat or a ball?_

Never say it's not fair, _he reminded himself bitterly. _There's always someone worse off. _That was what Mom always told him when he became inevitably embittered with his position. _You might not have a dad to take care of you, but others don't have _any_ parents.

_So, instead of crying out in frustration – instead of screaming and stamping his feet and whining about how unfair his life could be – he plastered a smile on his face and reached out to take Dani's hand._

"Come on," he said gently.

* * *

Chris paced the length of the cramped space, shaking his head, deep in thought. His mind spun wildly with the contemplations racing through it, and he tried desperately to make sense of all of them. Anxiously, he drummed his fingers against the side of his leg, restless and uncertain. 

No more than two nights ago, the closest people he knew besides his family and the Beckett sisters (who no longer lived anyway) had been murdered. The single room they called a house had been burned beyond recognition, and all the Resistance could find were three corpses. There was nothing to use to scry for the fourth body, so they had no way of knowing whether the only male of the family still lived.

Chris paused in front of his bed, closed his eyes for a couple of seconds as if trying to visualize where Michael might be, and then spun around to continue his ongoing march. When there was a timid rap on the door, he ignored it, shaking his head. He couldn't deal with more bad news right now.

"Chris, it's me," called a voice from the other side of the door. For one painful moment he thought the voice belonged to his best and oldest friend, Talia Beckett. They had met at the tender age of ten in Magic School and had taken to each other immediately. It was a little shy of two years since Talia and her older sister Jenna had been tortured and murdered at Wyatt's hands.

Chris's heart clenched at the thought. Wyatt had not only murdered his only brother's best friend; he had tortured and killed his own girlfriend – and all that just to prove he was above the human weakness of emotion. It made Chris sick.

"Come in," he murmured at length, his voice subdued as he flicked his wrist to telekinetically unlock his door. It eased open, and in walked a Phoenix and Wyatt Halliwell's personal spy.

_Until she decided to spy for us, that is,_ Chris thought with a grim smirk. It was about the only thing that had gone right in his life. Wyatt assigned Bianca to find Chris, build his trust, and then shatter his heart and body in the cruelest way possible. He wanted her to report to him every so often, feeding her information about the Resistance and his brother. She was to make him fall in love with her and then kill him herself.

She got as far as step one – getting Chris to fall for her – and made a fatal mistake. _She loved him back._ Ever since she had admitted her true feelings (and who she really was) with Chris, she had been spying for him. Double-crossing the famed, twice blessed witch, a dangerous and deadly feat to attempt.

"What is it?" he asked softly, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

"Phoebe sent me," she explained. "She said she can sense your frustration a mile away, and she couldn't take it any longer."

"Why didn't she come herself?" he demanded gruffly. What – did all the girls sit around gossiping about him? Did his aunt shared his private emotions with the whole world?

"Didn't you hear me?" she retorted. "She could literally feel you a mile away; how do you think it would have affected her if she were to stand in the same room with you? She'd have a seizure!" Crossly, she folded her arms over her chest and waited for Chris to look at her.

When he did, she could see the anguish concealed deep in his eyes. Her gaze softened somewhat as she asked, "What are you thinking about?"

If anyone else had asked, he would have shut him or her out. He used to open up to Talia and Talia alone, but his best friend was gone now. Bianca had been his pillar of support since then. She had sworn allegiance to him and to the Resistance, and he trusted her with his very life.

Running a weary hand through his hair, he sank onto his bed and closed his eyes. "They can't find a body," he sighed at length.

"What?"

"Michael," he clarified simple. "They can't find his body."

"That's good, then, right?" Bianca replied brightly. "I mean that means he's still alive, doesn't it? At least Wyatt hasn't killed him."

"That's not necessarily a good thing," Chris muttered under his breath, sitting up suddenly at the mention of his brother's name. How could the Wyatt he knew actually cause all this havoc and destruction? This was the brother who spoke to him telepathically before he ever spoke aloud to the rest of his family. This was the brother with which he possessed the strongest bond he had ever thought possible.

He had murdered Talia, Jenna, so many other innocent people, and now this – the Fitzwilliams: Jeanne and her two young daughters. The girls weren't even old enough to fight for the Resistance, and already they had been targeted.

"Chris, how can you say that?" Bianca cried in disbelief. "He's just a kid; he's completely innocent."

"For now," Chris agreed, snorting inwardly. _Kid?__He's just a year younger than I was when I started the Resistance._

Attempting to lighten the mood, Bianca pulled herself onto the bed beside Chris and began to kiss the back of his neck. "Hey," she murmured between kisses, "relax." She paused and smirked, "All this stressing out won't help your stomach digest that birthday cake."

Chris rolled his eyes at the comment. Nine days had passed since his birthday; how many times would she bring up that day? Besides, just because Phoebe and Paige found some extra ingredients to bake doesn't mean it was cake – whether they tried to bake one or not. His two aunts' cooking skills were nonexistent. He had been afraid to taste their creation and rightfully so.

"Right," he said dryly. "I'm sure."

Bianca's lips continued their perusing of his body as she leaned over his back to kiss his cheek. Then, she turned him around to meet his lips.

After a brief moment, he broke away, shaking his head. "I can't do this now," he said blushingly. "I'm sorry, I just can't."

The Phoenix nodded in acceptance. "That bad?" she questioned.

"Phoebe got a premonition yesterday," Chris informed her dully. "She went with me to the site to try to get a reading on Michael. She saw them getting killed."

"She saw Wyatt?" Bianca gasped. Since this whole war had begun, Chris attempted to shield his two aunts. He didn't want them to meet Wyatt and see the monster he had become. It was one thing to hear that their beautiful, baby nephew had done all this but another thing entirely to actually witness it firsthand. If they saw him – saw what he looked like now, how he disregarded his late mother's teachings – they would be devastated.

"No," he replied tightly. "She saw me."

Bianca frowned. "Come again?"

The witchlighter stood up so suddenly that Bianca fell forward, barely catching herself from falling off the bed completely. At the last moment her training kicked in, and she was able to grab the sides of the bed to keep from slipping. When she rearranged herself into a more comfortable position, she glanced up at her silent boyfriend. He was more than agitated, she noticed; he was restless – he was _pissed._

"He sent a _shapeshifter_"—he spat the word as if it were a curse—"so that Michael would think _I_ killed his family. And Michael went with him willingly. He wants revenge. That's all he cares about now. Killing me."

"Okay," she sighed after a pause in which the stillness of the room grew heavy and uncomfortably thick. "Okay. So Michael is gone – is there any way to get him back?"

"No," Chris replied tonelessly. "You know Wyatt. He won't let a prize go."

"A prize?" Bianca echoed. "What do you mean? So he got a witch on his side – big deal. It's not like Michael's another twice blessed or anything, right?"

"No. Not exactly," answered the witchlighter almost reluctantly. He twisted around to look at her, reading the unasked question in her eyes. "He has the power to manipulate time and space. He can jump from past to present to future, from realm to realm. He can change what was to change what will be. He could wipe out every single one of us in the Resistance before we're even born."

The silence grew louder until Bianca could barely stand it, suppressing the urge to cover her ears with her hands. "Oh," she managed to whisper in a strangled voice. "This is bad."

Chris laughed harshly at the simplicity of her statement. "Yeah," he concurred, "Bad."

* * *

_(End.)_

* * *

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